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Hello everyone, Asclepius here, with a great story from Reebdog, entitled “The Guard and the Lily, part 1” Background music “Lover’s Touch” by Smartsound.

The Guard and the Lily. Part 1

The ancestors who lived through the cataclysm and past, during the unknown times, carried through traditions that had all but been forgotten. Some still live with old tradition which is rare in New Brittania because of the Oracle. See, the Oracle doesn’t believe in some old traditions especially ones heavily embraced in the Vale. Since many of the citizens in the Vale are free thinkers and have escaped the rule of the Oracle, their most honored traditions are looked down upon. One of them being the hunt for the red lily.

It is said that the first red lily given to a young girl of age by an admirer will tie a magic bond between them stronger than that of the girl and any other man. The bond will be so strong that neither will ever have the eye for another mate. The tradition has proved so popular in the Vale that some new farmers who had escaped the rule of the Oracle had stopped growing wheat in order to cash in on a crop of red lilies. But they soon found that acquiring the seed of a red lily is not only difficult, but near impossible. Even when the seeds of a red lily are plucked, the chance of one turning red is extremely rare. You may end up with a sea of white lilies that are good for nothing more than sprucing up the town roads. The red lily only grows in abundance where the water flows across the nutritious soils of a mountain top. There must be sunlight every day as well so they only grow above the cloud line. And the adventure to find one is the first part of the tradition.

“May the peace of new in the Vale be with ye boy” said the old crooked looking man. His legs trembled like a couple of uprooted fence posts in a storm. His trousers, held up by a scanty pair of suspenders, danced in the wind and filled up to his breeches. The young man nodded with pride swelling up in his eyes as he snapped the back end of his horse with his boot. It was his time to hunt for a red lily. He had grown strong enough to plow an entire field in a day which was the turning point into manhood. He was now a man at the age of seven and ten ready for the abundance of what life had to offer. Owl’s Nest would soon disappear in his wake of dust. Homesickness a near future reality. And a young lady of six and ten longing for his return.

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Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, and I’m delighted to introduce Lady Adnor as guest narrator for this fine piece. Background music is “Trails to Anywhere” by Matthew Pablo at www.matthewpablo.com.

*At the request of the author, this has been removed. Author has changed mind. Thank you

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Hello All!  A wonderful and quite intriguing story here by Faelam of Libris entitled The Hourglass.

Here is the text:

Background Music: Esther by Joseph Gilbert/Kistol

The Hourglass by Faelam of Libris

The first movement he made that morning was to reach out for the hourglass. He turned it quickly. This was a daily lifelong ritual for Ranick, for he believed that if he missed one turn of the glass, his life would end. One grain after the other, Ranick watched it trickle as he readied himself for the day. He would live each day just to make another turn of the glass. He could not remember when he had started turning it. Sometimes, he remembered his father turning the glass. The day was mocking him with lateness, and Ranick walked out the door, watching the sand as long as he could.

He lived in an old building in one of the better parts of the city. Some buildings, like the one Ranick lived in, dated back a century. His family had lived there for a century. He thought back to when he had been so afraid of missing a turn that he carried it everywhere he went. But now, he felt safe with the knowledge of his duty. He turned the glass every day and was content. Yet he was increasingly curious about what kinds of powers the glass itself held. Still, for twenty-three years, he held back the urge to try an experiment, until his birthday.

He was lonely and bored, and lonelier from the responsibility the glass put on him. He decided, once and for all, that he would test it in just a little way. Just to see its power. So he left his window-facing chair and walked slowly towards the hourglass. He remembered, vaguely, his father telling him never to play with it, only to turn it. Yet his father was long dead, now, so what did he matter?

Ranick was in his chair, facing the window, with a strange feeling. Surely he had seen that same bird before, somewhere. He thought about how much his birthday made him feel lonelier and tried to forget his boredom. But he couldn’t shake the urge to test the glass in a little way. So he got out of his chair facing the window and walked slowly toward the hourglass. He vaguely remembered his father telling him never to fool with it, only to turn it. But he was dead, now.

Ranick enjoyed the view out of his window and thought to himself, hadn’t he seen that bird before?

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Hello everyone, Asclepius here, with a great story by Baron Drocis Fondorlatos, entitled “Notes on my Travels to Kingsport”. Background music is “Requiem for your Soul”, by Smartsound.

Part I

Beneath all humanity stirs an undercurrent of hopelessness and despair. Knowing that we are all connected in some way is little comfort to the reality that perhaps the greatest connection we share is the fact that one day we will all die. If not here in New Britannia then back in our own world, for even an Avatar’s immortality is limited.

Kingsport is no different. Beyond the troubled townsfolk who work and trade on the surface of this peaceful village by the sea, there are cursed remains from the past that walk the darkened halls of the sewers below. It is here that I first witnessed the reanimated shells of the living in the form of skeletal guardsman. An axe for one, a sword for another, these once men attacked me as soon as I was within range. Most of my spells were of no consequence and I quickly learned that fire was one of the only ways to defend myself from their relentless onslaught.

In the end, I lay near death and two piles of smoldering bones. But I survived with the strength to investigate the cursed wrecks. Both were unrecognizable from one another, dripping with caramelized ashen bone, and their weapons appeared to be of low quality. Perhaps these were the spoils of others that had been foolish enough to enter the sewers alone. But one pile contained a different substance I had not seen before. Filmy and sticky to the touch, this black grey compound had the consistency of jam and the smell of dung. I collected what I could for further study, and found that as I did the substance began to naturally form into a ball. The rest I reluctantly wiped off on my robes.

Sensing I was not strong enough to continue further into the sewers on my own, I retreated back to the naïve surface of Kingsport with many questions still left unanswered. Who created these dark souls? What were they guarding? Why Kingsport? And more importantly, how do I get this sticky black grey dung off my robes

Part II

Like many buildings in Kingsport, the lighthouse was empty. But why the keeper had wandered off was more commentary than mystery. Recent events had made the need for a lighthouse obsolete, as the trade ships from the Novia coast that once frequented the port town had stopped arriving months ago.

Standing at the top of the towered structure, I warmed to the fired pit of the beacon in the cool night air. Looking out into the sea at the empty calm where moonlight met the horizon, I pondered the fate of this poor town.

Gazing on the shipless port, I was reminded of the fable known as The Lost Mice.

The first mouse, the provider, went out in search of food for his family. When he did not return, the second mouse, the mother, went out in search of the father. When the mother did not return, the children starved. One child, barely able to move, crept out to look for its mother and father. There was no sign of them, instead all the child could see was two large glowing orbs, a slit down the center of each.

The lesson from the story is that sometimes the things we lose are lost for a reason.

The first ships went out but did not return. When more ships were sent to search for those who were lost, they too did not come back. Now the children of Kingsport fear to look further, for they may find not two but a single eye staring back at them.

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Hello All!  Lord Baldrith here with an awesome story by Lich Lord Ravicus called Shardfall and the Village of the Damned.  Very dark and excellent story!

Here is the text:

Background Music: Alexandr Zhelanov Pioneers of the Future https://soundcloud.com/alexandr-zhelanov and Gichco by Shinsei

Shardfall and the Village of the Damned by Lich Lord Ravicus Domdred

Ravicus glanced with a steel cold look over the Shard covered plains. as he looked on, the images flood through his mind, of what has been done, and what yet has to be done……

The memoirs of his family have passed from generation to generation in a blood covered grimoire made of flesh that had been rendered and stretched to cover the insidious pages. The grimoire talks of how the Shardfall was the ruin of the land, depriving the villagers of bird and beast. Nothing grew, not grain nor grass. Trees where non existent after the pummeling of the shards.

It is this that leads to the blight that has perpetuated the present circumstances. After the loss of food, be it flora or fauna, the people became desperate, and in desperate times, people do desperate things.

On a trip foraging for food, It might have been fate, or a curse that brought the villagers to an unknown area. A mausoleum lay in ruins, cracked open with the force of huge stones thrown from the heavens. Spirits that were trapped in the mausoleum where not kind, nor friendly. One of them was especially sinister. The undead quickly felt the desperation and hunger in the villagers and quickly moved to possess them, bending their minds to the will of the evil necromancer that lay in the tomb.

The mind of the necromancer was full of dark and forbidden magics and alchemical formulas…..all stemming from the death, and flesh of humans…..(which are printed in blood in the grimoire).

Powerful was this necromancer, commanding raiding parties to scour the lands, rendering flesh and bone, for feast, potions, and the beautifully corrupt art of his evil craft………

Ravicus jolts, steering his thoughts from the past, and smells human flesh, nearby, and just in time too, for the hunger is upon him……Muhahahahahaah. ~Ravicus Domdred~

Shardfall and the Village of the Damned Pt 1 (the Curse of Anthor Poagphus the Hungered)

While stirring restlessly in wait, after laying the bait for some unfortunate passerby to notice…….he again turns to the dark crimson text in the Domdred Grimoire, and begins to revisit the tale of the origins of the City of the Damned….

…..As starvation took hold of the villagers, formation of scouting parties where fully attended in hopes of finding some means of sustenance. One party in particular, led by a young lean farmer’s son, struck out eastward, for it was in that direction that laid unexplored areas since the massive shardfall that decimated the region. With watchful eyes the group journey toward the rising sun, up and around the huge pillars of stone which littered the plundered soil in every direction. Crawling across the lowest point of one of the horizontally laying pillars, an eerie image presents itself.

Shattered stone pieces of what resembles a crypt, a mausoleum of ancient craftsmanship lay in tangled piles earth and stone. Upon closing in on the ruins, a foul must lay in the air, stinging the nostrils and setting in an itch that could not be rid of. It was a mist, a mist sort of like what you would see viewing through a piece of thin black satin. A mild distortion of the rabble strewn about.

With trembling lips and cautious advancement, the farmers son pierced the opaque veil and was stilled in his steps, the breath escaped his lungs as he tried to force out a warning. Instantly, vise like grips of twin skeletons grabbed at his arms, forcing him in place. Out of the debris, a shadow stirs, then becomes visible, an apparition of unspeakable horror! It glides closer, with tattered rags flailing around him. Within an inch of his nose, the ghostly eyes of the necromancer stole into his own, reaching in to his very core. It was with no more than a whisper that his very soul was ripped from his body and absorbed into the shifting form of the undead lich. He closed his eyes………

The skeletons quickly released the body, which for a brief second slumped, then quickly animated back to form! The body seemed to double in size, perhaps an illusion. He then spoke and with the voice of the young man abruptly stated: “I, Anthor Poagphus , have arisen once again!” With saying that, he turned and walked back into the mist, onward toward the unknowing remaining party members……muhahahahah…….

Ravicus Domdred circa 2014

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Hello everyone!  Lord Baldrith here with a 4th installment of the Sir Frank series called Necropolis.  Very good work again!

Background Music by Zander Noriega called Black Drought

Here is the text:

Necropolis By Sir Frank

The rain fell softly upon the canopy of the trees, and ran in rivulets down the branches and trunks, as if being careful not to disturb what lay beneath.

Weathered bones lay scattered among the weeds and brush that had sprouted among the cobbled pathways of an ancient necropolis.  One mausoleum remained standing, its door wedged open while two travelers kept dry and enjoyed the cool air inside.

“An interesting choice of refuge from the walking dead”, said sir Frank.  “Why leave the safety of Kingsport to live in a grave yard?”

The former innkeeper smiled a broad smile.  “The dead were bubbling up from the sewers underneath the tavern!  I figured it would only be fair for me to invade their place.”  He leaned heavily upon the door jamb and vomited a geyser of foamy stout porter, belched loudly, and then screamed “Everyone is welcome at the Hearth of Britannia!”  into the trees.  Then he laughed an insane sort of laugh.

Sir Frank leaned back against the wall and waited for nightfall.